


Rutting

by RembrandtsWife



Series: Northumberland [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Fawnlock, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Masturbation, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 17:37:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RembrandtsWife/pseuds/RembrandtsWife
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John doesn't know that Fawnlock can get into the cottage when he's not there. He also doesn't know what Fawnlock gets up to in his absence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rutting

**Author's Note:**

> I... I'm not sure what came over me, here. Unrepentant masturbation fic inspired by strange and wonderful Fawnlock AU that sprouted up on Tumblr thanks to [Paula](http://bennyslegs.tumblr.com/), with a tip of the hat to Tumblr's [Red Pants Monday](http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/red+pants+monday). This may be a snippet of a longer work--we shall see. If Fawnlock baffles, bores, or disgusts you, then {Jedi hand wave} this is not the fic you're looking for.

John did not know about the old cellar door that opened out about thirty strides behind the cottage. Fawnlock had long ago broken its lock and crept inside to explore the human dwelling, but it had not been very interesting when the place was uninhabited, cold and dark and smelling only of damp. Now it was filled with John's smells and John's possessions and the reminder of John's presence, even if the human himself was far away. And even with no fire on the hearth, no lights kindled, it was warm and dry compared to the slow, steady rains that were soaking the forest.

Fawnlock rubbed himself dry with a towel and then foraged in the kitchen. He did not trust the machines that opened up the shiny tins of things, but he could manage a knife reasonably well. When he was full of bread and jam and a cold packet of some sort of meat in the cold box, he curled up on the couch to take a nap.

Today, however, the couch seemed strangely uncomfortable. Fawnlock tossed and he turned, he moved the pillows away and then moved them back, but nothing seemed to help. Growling under his breath, he slouched off into the bedroom, where he had not entered before. He would not normally have entered someone else's den, not John's den any more than a bear's den or a fox's, but John seemed to abide by different rules than the forest-dwellers. He might not mind if Fawnlock napped in his den.

The bed was beautifully wide compared to the couch and firmer, which Fawnlock liked, and it smelled of John. He rolled around a bit on the colorful bed-cover, testing its firmness, smelling the variety of smells. Yes, this was much nicer than the couch. No wonder John spent his nights here. Perhaps he would share when he returned. Fawnlock dragged a pillow under his neck and closed his eyes with a contented snort.

Yet still, he could not rest. Something was keeping him awake, prodding his senses. A sharper smell, smells of John, stronger than on the bed-cover, richer and more complex. Propping himself on one elbow, he sniffed, turning his head from side to side. There, wait--ah! there!

Fawnlock pounced, one hand darting out as he rolled to the floor and pulling something out from the cave beneath the bed. Instinctively, he brought it at once to his nose and whuffed deeply. The scent of it made him feel dizzy, as if he had eaten fallen fruit that has lain out too long. He looked at it, baffled. It was a scrap of red stuff, no bigger than the towels he had seen in the kitchen, only differently shaped. And it smelled more of John than anything else he had ever encountered.

Clothing? he wondered. He understood that John's kind needed layers of covering over their hides to protect them from the weathers, but what could be the purpose of this? He sniffed again, short repeated huffs that allowed him to sense and sort all the information embedded in the fabric.

Here was the faint scent of John's droppings, not too unlike Fawnlock's own, although he ate much more meat than Fawnlock's kind and left his waste only in the strange cold white bowl of water in the little room. Here was the scent of sweat, sweat buried in coarse hair--ah, that was it. This was one of those coverings John put on his loins, before the long coverings for his legs. Fawnlock had often wondered why they were necessary. Did it have something to do with hiding the smells, perhaps? He knew that his own scent was much stronger than John's, because he knew better than to wash it away constantly.

Fawnlock bent to the investigation again. Yes, a strong sweaty smell from the hair at John's crotch, a good smell. He liked it. It was the smell of John's scalp and neck and armpits, only stronger, and with the note of rutting in it. Wait, there was more of that-- He turned the red covering around in his hands, sniffing with open mouth, inhaling, almost tasting. Here was a stiff place, a stain, and the unmistakable smell of rut, of a male's spending--

Before he quite knew what he was doing, Fawnlock had sprawled over the bed again, the red stuff beneath him and against his stiff prick. Growling, he thrust against it, against the hand that gripped it, against the soft bed-covering, until with a loud cry he added the smell of his own rut to what John had left behind.

Startled by the force of his arousal, he lay still for a moment, his nose buried in the swirling colors of the bed-cover. Then he rolled onto his back, leaving the sticky red garment draped over his crotch as his thumping heart and heaving chest settled back to their normal rhythms. He had not been expecting that. John was strange and interesting and unlike any person he had ever known, whether of the forest or of the towns, but Fawnlock had not found him arousing, till now. And now, he would not be able to forget it--the smell of John's rut on the red garment, and of his own rut mixing with it in a fierce rush of pleasure.

Troubled, Fawnlock abandoned the red garment there on the bed and headed for the cellar entrance, to flee back into the rain.


End file.
